


Bruce Wayne Taken Hostage

by twriting



Series: World's Finest [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Female Clark Kent, alfred needs to wash that boy's mouth with soap, rated t for bruce wayne's constant swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twriting/pseuds/twriting
Summary: Dim light comes in through the gallery's skylights, the orange glow of the city broken into patches of shadow by the ceiling's cross-beams.Bruce keeps his voice down to a low mutter. "You did something to the lights.""I shorted out the wiring with a combination of heat vision and x-ray vision," Kent mutters back. Then she calls out "We're saved! Batman is here! Watch out, evil clowns!""How have you managed to keep any secrets this long?"
Relationships: Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/James "Jimmy" Olsen, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Series: World's Finest [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554871
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kieron_ODuibhir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieron_ODuibhir/gifts).



**The K.I.D.S.tropolis Foundation**  
Cordially invites you and a guest to attend our 7th Annual  
**Fundraising Auction**  
Featuring an unforgettable evening of cocktails, cuisine, silent and live auctions  
benefitting kids and teens affected by poverty

Friday, January 15th 2021  
From 6 o'clock to Midnight  
Chamberlain Gallery of Contemporary Art  
535 Griswold Street, Metropolis

* * *

> **201-46** : What are you doing here?

Bruce Wayne is the world's biggest jerk. Why does he keep pulling stunts like this? Who just shows up to a fundraiser without being on the guest list?

Very carefully not gritting her teeth because there are people in the bathroom and the noise might disturb them, Cantrell Kent hits send on her reply.

> **Childe5-12** : Jimmy invited me. KIDStropolis is a major NPO, this is a great chance for me to make connections
> 
> **Childe5-12** : What are you doing here?

> **201-46** : Funding K.I.D.S.tropolis.

Cantrell growls at her phone. The other woman at the bathroom sink gives her a sympathetic look. She's tiny, about ten inches shorter than Cantrell, but built like a gymnast with a neck almost as thick as her head. She seems familiar somehow, but Cantrell has an excellent memory and if she can't place this person than it's probably just that she reminds her of someone else. "Bad night?"

Rolling her eyes as she types a response, Cantrell nods. "There's a guy out there I'm trying to avoid."

> **Childe5-12** : I can't be seen anywhere near you. You're too high profile 

It's not that Bruce is trying to mess with her, he's just weirdly bad at being a normal human. That's what Cantrell tries to believe.

"How bad are we talking?"

"Welllll... " Okay, she's not out to ruin Bruce's reputation here. "Really not that bad, I guess. I ran into him a few months ago outside a nightclub and he tried to pick me up. I shot him down pretty hard. So I'm sort of hoping that he won't see me and, y'know... "

The woman nods. "Either make another pass at you or stomp off without giving KIDStropolis any money?"

"Yeah." She's not actually worried about Bruce doing that, but it is a good excuse to avoid him tonight.

"Well, James Olsen doesn't seem the type - "

"He's not." Of course he's not. Why would anyone even think Jimmy would do something like that?

Checking her look in the mirror, the woman plays with her short black hair for a few seconds. "So that leaves Bruce Wayne."

"Who is not supposed to be here. Why is he here, darn it?" Her phone vibrates with an alert. Not her Fortress's emergency pulse-code, just another text. Even if she turns the alerts off, she really doesn't want to stick it back in her bra if Wayne's going to be texting her all evening. She'll deal with the messages after she's had a minute to calm down.

The woman shakes her head. "Well, the gallery does have a back door. Or you can take your chances out there."

"Guess I'll take my chances," Cantrell says as the woman leaves. She can't hide in here for the rest of the night. Not least because Jimmy has sent a couple of texts asking where she is.

> **Childe5-12** : Sorry. Period hit a little early. Lucky this place has pads in the dispenser. Be right back

Finally she checks Bruce's messages. The secure app he installed on her phone works just fine, but the man has one theme in his life and he clings to it like a toddler with a favourite blankie. The app's blue text on a grey background is a bit hard to read.

> **201-46** : There is nothing unusual about a social work student going to a fundraiser with her rich boyfriend and meeting another rich man.

Okay, maybe he's right.

> **201-46** : There is something very unusual about a young woman hiding in a toilet stall to avoid someone she has supposedly never met before.

Darn it, Bruce. Stop being right.

Grumbling under her breath, Cantrell admits that she might be overreacting due to nerves. This is her first fundraiser. Well, not even really her fundraiser. She's just Jimmy's date. KIDStropolis is relatively new but already a major player in Metropolis's NPO scene, and they've been running these events for a few years now. If Cantrell is lucky she can make a solid first impression on the people here.

If she's unlucky she'll trip over her own feet, demolish the wine table, ruin her only halfway decent dress, and accidentally incinerate everyone in the building with her heat vision.

She's definitely overreacting. This is an art auction. Jimmy is here. She'll be fine. Cantrell Kent opens the bathroom door and steps back onto the floor of the Chamberlain Gallery to brave the wilds of wine and cheese.

She's overreacting. How bad could this night possibly be?


	2. Chapter 2

The second floor of the Chamberlain Gallery isn't all that big. To the right of the bathroom is an open area, about fourty feet by thirty, set up with a few tables covered with light snacks. Attendants hover around the tables, helping guests match various cheeses and meats to the wines at the other table. Cantrell ignores the third table, the one covered with various light pastries. They might be good commercial pastries, but they're still commercial. Jimmy had told Cantrell there would be food, but she's not sure if he meant these tables or if there's more included with the $300 ticket. And speaking of, there's Jimmy lurking over by the vending machines along the back wall.  
  
Poor Jimmy is stuck in a really ordinary suit tonight, with the only hint of his usual style being a green and blue tie. "You're usually pretty regular. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Probably just school. Tired. You know."

"Have you considered actually sleeping?"

"What, and give up my three am anxiety attacks?" Anxiety and insomnia are terrible things to lie about, but they're great excuses for missing a class. It's not like she can tell people she needs to deal with a landslide in Mexico or whatever the latest mess is. "Hey, I wonder if they have Blue Devil?"

"If you need an excuse to get out of here, I'm kind of famous for leaving early."  
  
"Nah, I'm good." Cantrell crouches down by a half-sized vending machine and looks over the selection of energy drinks. "These machines are tiny. Did they bring them in for just the event? Oh they do have Blue Devil. Cinnamon-ginger, great." She taps her card and waits for the machine to drop her drinks. "Did you hear? They're making a movie based on the mascot."

"A movie based on an energy drink mascot?"

"Yeah. Who says the big studios are out of ideas?" Cantrell sticks her card back in her bra and grabs the two cans of Blue Devil. "I wish you'd brought a purse today."

"You know you could get your own?"

"But then I couldn't sneak stuff into yours."

"You're bigger than me. Why do I have to carry all the stuff?"

"Testosterone. Men have bigger frames than women. Y-chromosome privilege."

"That is the worst privilege. That is anti-privilege. I'm starting a petition against that privilege."

Jimmy and Cantrell move towards the east wing, where the pamphlet says the sculptures are displayed. Jimmy's brother Jeremy has a piece up for auction up tonight. Jimmy had rolled his eyes a bit when he told Cantrell that, and when she asked why he replied 'You'll see'.

The Chamberlain Gallery in east side downtown is a smaller building, an old library built in the 19th Century and sold for redevelopment in the 20th. The floors are hardwood, brass handrails line the stairwells, and carved wood panels and shelves provide a backdrop for the artwork. It's pretty, but to Cantrell it all looks a little too unscuffed to be genuine. No surfacing remains unscratched after a century and a half of use.

The east wing isn't huge, maybe fifty feet across. The majority of the sculptures here are small, except for the one in the middle of the floor. Guests move between the sculptures, paying more attention to one another than the works on display. The crowd tonight is mostly men in casual suits and women in black dresses, with a few splashes of colour jumping out from the dull important-casual looks. Guests keep a safe distance from the middle of the wing, where a metal egg three yards high squats. The egg is made of chicken wire and aluminum framing with portruding rusty iron feathers.

"That's Jeremy's piece," Jimmy says. "Two hundred dollars of scrap metal. Starting bid five thousand dollars."

"Um."

"Yeah. I'm so glad he's not here tonight."

The rest of the works - Well, Cantrell has to admit she doesn't really get sculture. She paints a bit, or used to when she had more time. She likes colour and the abstraction of flat images more than sculpted forms. And she doubts these pieces would appeal to her even if she was more into sculpture. There's a display of bananas, and two stainless steel swans mating, and something that looks like an old CRT television with teeth instead of a screen. People seem to glide past the works without really looking at them.

"Lana would probably like this stuff more," Cantrell says to Jimmy.

"Is she the one studying design in Japan?"

"Chukyo, yeah. She always liked this sort of thing more than I do."

Cantrell eyes the curved far wall of the wing, about fifty feet away, with stairs leading up to the third floor. On the gallery map the third floor is relatively small, just a one story circular tower above the east wing. That's where the really expensive pieces are shown. A quick glance with a mix of broad-spectrum radiation and psychokinetic wavicles lets her spot a particularly thick bundle of muscle and bone with a spectacularly efficient heart. Bruce. Odds are pretty good he'll be down soon, the level isn't really big enough to have more than a few pieces.

Jimmy notices her looking in that direction. "Do you want to check out the stuff up there? We've got invites."

"No, I think I want to see the paintings next. And maybe the food." The drawback to x-ray vision is that Cantrell knows way more about people than she strictly wants. She finishes her last shot of Blue Devil, mentally files Bruce Wayne's _stuff_ under Things To Forget, and dumps her empty can in a recycling bin. Jimmy winces as Cantrell cracks open her second energy drink. "Oh wow," he says. "That is an unhealthy quantity of Blue Devil."  
  
"I need at least three of these to get a buzz." That's one of her everyday lies. She has no idea how much caffeine it would take to have any effect on her.

"I'm just going to start carrying a portable defibrillator around when we go out."

Together they make their way back towards the tables. The waitstaff are almost entirely brown, the security guards around the building exits as white as the crowd. As Jimmy grabs a few snacks Cantrell finishes her second can. She dumps that one in recycling and buys a couple more. She can almost feel Jimmy's exasperated glare burning holes in her back, but she has a reputation as an over-caffeinated workaholic to keep up.

So far Cantrell hasn't actually met anyone here. Or even really talked to anyone. She has to admit she isn't great at breaking the ice with people. If Lana hadn't imprinted on her the first day she moved to Smallville it probably would have been weeks before she made any friends in high school. Come to think of it, Lori and Jimmy and Sally had all just sort of stuck themselves to her in the first week of university, and the only other person she really knows at MetU is Brad from Smallville.

Jimmy wanders over with his little plate of expensive cold cuts and cheeses. Cantrell might not know art but she does know food, and this is the good stuff.

"I hear Bruce Wayne is here. Just showed up without an invitation."

"I heard," Cantrell answers. "Who does that?"

"Rich people."

"You're rich."

"Yeah, but my family's not Wayne rich. He's like, the definition of ultra-high-net-worth individual."

"Aren't you related?"

"Barely. I've never met him though. Our families aren't on the best terms."

"Why not?"

Jimmy's eyes narrow. "They know what they did."

"Is this a feud? Are rich people just hillbillies with better publicity?"

"Uhhh, kinda yeah."

"Well, that's what my dad always said. Hey, let's check out the paintings."

The paintings up for bid are in a room right in the middle of the central wing. Cantrell cracks open her lychee Blue Devil and leads Jimmy to the display. The room is a little more crowded than the sculpture wing, the people here paying a bit more attention to the works. Cantrell isn't sure if that means more people prefer paintings over sculpture or if the stuff on display in the east wing just isn't very good. Or maybe there are just more people closer to the snacks.  
  
Metropolis is a quarter Black, nearly a third Latinx, and about an eighth Asian. Nearly seventeen percent of the city lives in poverty. By contrast the crowd here tonight is mostly White people and almost entirely affluent.

And speaking of Ritz Crackers. Here comes Bruce, looking relaxed and comfortable in a way that seems weirdly wrong if you know who he actually is. He wears a grey three piece suit, layers of richly textured fabric over a shirt so darkly blue it's almost black. And oh look he's accessorized the outfit with a very attractive but very small dark-haired woman on his arm, a woman with a lean and powerful gymnast's build...

Oh right. The woman from Wayne Tower. And the bathroom.

Great. She was running Bruce down to his girlfriend. What else can go wrong tonight?


	3. Chapter 3

"Bruce, we have got to meet that young woman. The one with the Olsen redhead."  
  
"No."

Selina glances up at him. Her ears do not perk up because despite her best efforts she is not actually a cat, but her eyes do go wide and intense. Once again he feels like Selina's prey.

He is aware of how fucking stupid that sounds.

"Really?" Selina breathes the word with just a hint of a purr. He already knows that the conversation will involve him refusing to explain and end with Selina prying more out of him then he wants to say. It's the closest thing to therapy he has ever experienced.

Selina leans in close against him and puts her hand over his chest. It might look like a hug. Even from his vantage point he can feel the intensity of the look Selina focuses on Kent. It might look like desire. "Is she _dangerous_ , Bruce?"

A tall square jawed woman with dark hair. At least she's not wearing a pearl necklace to go with her black dress. The way she one-handedly crushes her drink can and tosses it in a nearby recycling bin helps kill any resemblance.

"She's a metahuman."  
  
"Like Doctor Isley?"

"Like a walking nuclear weapon."

Across the room, Kent chugs another Blue Devil.

This all must look normal. Bruce Wayne and gallery-owner Selina Kyle dropping in unannounced at a charity auction. Bruce is here to support Metropolis's most effective anti-poverty NPO and drop a few hints that they might want to open an operation in Gotham. Selina is here tonight to see who among Metropolis's art collectors aren't. Who shows up for what events is one more useful bit of information in identifying the sort of collectors who draw her professional interest.  
  
Until now the crowd has kept a respectful distance, with no more than glances in the direction of Selina and Bruce. No media up here just yet either. But now a blonde woman breaks away from her group and homes in on Bruce. Her smile is warm and professional without touching her eyes.

"Bruce! Hope I'm not interrupting? Thought I should reintroduce myself and welcome you to Metropolis."

He reviews where he may have seen a person like this before. A Wayne Foundation event? Yes. Last Christmas. A functionary from the Glenmorgan Foundation. Glen Glenmorgan belongs in Gotham, among the mobbed-up financiers and mafiya-linked real estate firms, not bright and clean Metropolis. But the Glenmorgan Foundation does tolerably good work.

He switches vocal gears to his people-friendly voice. "Thanks! Great to see you again." Please give him a name. They're on a first name basis apparently. Did he have sex with this woman? No. He'd remember that. "Last year's Christmas fundraiser, wasn't it?"

He notes which door Kent and Olsen are leaving by.

"That's right. Great memory, Bruce." As of last year, works in the Glenmorgan Foundation group responsible for supporting school lunch programs for kids. He can remember everything about this woman except her name. It's possible he never knew it.

"So are you in town for long?"

"No. Just dropping in to support a worthy cause. KIDStropolis does good work. I'm hoping to pick up a few pointers for the Wayne Foundation."

"Well you shouldn't have any trouble convincing them to work with you." She's aware enough to pick up on Selina's possessive hand on Bruce's chest. "I don't want to take up your whole night. You should get out there and enjoy yourself before they let the media upstairs."

"That's always a mob scene," Bruce says. Then he brightens his expression. "Say, do you have a card? I'll pass it along to my staff at the Foundation. You're still with the Glenmorgan Foundation, right?"

"Absolutely." Her smile is genuine and triumphant. Bruce will give her card to the right people. Maybe something useful will come from it.

Kent and her date left by the north door. Bruce guides Selina out after them. This area at the front of the building only has about a dozen paintings on display. Kent and Olsen stand in front of something with a lot of red and gold in it. Stairways on either side of the room lead down to the first floor, and security guards stand at the top of the stairs to keep the press away. One of the guards borders on morbidly obese.

"So what can your little friend do that's so terrifying?"

"You weren't laughing when she broke into Wayne Tower in December."

"That was her? God, I though Crane had gotten loose somehow."

"Yeah. You acted like someone with a face full of terror gas."

"I've apologized for that. I even kissed it and made it better."  
  
"There's a scar."

"It's cute."

"There is a scar. On my dick."

"I'll apply some vitamin E ointment later."

The Chamberlain building isn't big but it has a high vaulted ceiling with decorative arches and excessive crossbeams. The blinds are drawn on the windows along the walls to better light the art on display, but skylights show the dim glow of an urban night. In the bright artificial light seven people move from painting to painting. For the most part they seem interested in talking among themselves rather than taking in the works.  
  
Bruce considers the cream of Metropolis's society. Less self-consciously formal than Gotham's high society types, more interested in being seen discussing Important Business with Important People. An image to keep up in either city's case.

He assesses the crowd on a logarithmic scale he has just made up, where one is an ordinary citizen going about their day. Overall the attendees are about as threatening as a group of toddlers playing with knives. Almost certainly a danger mainly to themselves, but not an environment you can really feel safe in. Threat assessment: One.  
  
The security guards are clearly bottom-of-the-barrel types, hired by a cost-conscious organizer more concerned with revenue than safety. They radiate a mix of boredom at standing around blended with a nervousness probably due to standing around people who could effortlessly ruin their careers with a phone call. In any emergency tonight these clowns and their guns would be the major risk. Threat assessment: Three.

Kyle, Selina. Not working tonight, just here to represent her own gallery. Athletic, skilled. Deceptively small. Too clever for anyone's good but her own. Threat assessment: Five. Nine if you include emotional risk.

Wayne, Bruce. Threat assessment: Seven. Probably ten if you include risks to self.

Kent, Cantrell Joanne. A first year university student who casually dismisses the idea of global domination as not being worth her time. A source of sustained reactionless thrust potentially capable of pushing the moon out of orbit and bringing it crashing down to Earth. Threat assessment: Best not to think about it.  
  
Kent seems to like the paintings on the east wall. Urban scenes. Crowds and activity, people doing things. Right now she and Olsen are in front of a street scene flowing with cars and pedestrians. The artist used oil paint and palette knives to carve a picture of Metropolis's Uptown. West side between Lafayette Bridge and the docks, but Kent and Olsen are arguing about whether the view faces north or south.

Kent is wearing a black dress with silver highlights, matching western-syle black and silver ropers. Bruce gestures with his chin in her direction. Then he realizes Selina is too short and at the wrong angle to pick up on the motion. "What's that style of dress called that she's wearing?"

Kent and Olsen have decided the artist has moved things around, blending views to give a complete perspective of the area.  
  
"A skater dress. That design is from Metro Urbans."

The woman who dragged a cargo ship back to the ocean after it had been beached by a tsunami shops at North America's most popular midrange fashion store.  
  
Kent and Olsen are at other sides of the room from one another, with Kent looking at the more rural scenes along the west wall. Bruce moves to take advantage of the situation.

"I need to talk to her. It will be easier if I do it alone."

The corner of Selina's mouth twitches. "Yes. It would be so difficult for playboy Bruce Wayne and his unicorn girlfriend to approach an attractive person at a party."

He hadn't even considered the sex angle. She probably has a point, but he's already moving in on Kent and Selina hasn't followed along. Instead she's moving towards Olsen.

Bruce takes care to make noise on the floor as he comes up behind Kent. She doesn't seem to be the type to lash out when startled, but he'd rather not take chances with someone who can pick up and throw an overflowing grease dumpster.

She tilts her head in his direction but doesn't look away from the painting. He's not sure what this one is supposed to be, except that it seems warm. Soft golds and oranges over a background of muted brown. The brighter tones form waves or maybe hills, and towards the top of the canvas the colours give way to blue and silver.

"Looks like the Flint Hills," Kent says. He wonders if she remembers they're not supposed to know one another. "Reminds me of where I spread mom and dad's ashes."

'Mom and dad'. Martha and Jonathan Kent. Her adoptive parents, the people who found her wandering naked by the side of a back country road in the Flint Hills. The same night as the world's first confirmed meteor fall of extrasolar material.

A tiny fraction of the material isn't just rock from another star system, it's made of entirely non-conventional matter. Childhood exposure to exotic matter is the most likely source of her abilities.

So far as he is aware no government knows about this material. Just as well. The thought of a superhuman arms race inspires existential dread.

"My family has a private cemetery." He regrets saying it as soon as the words are done. It has nothing to do with her parents, and just sounds like a morbid brag.

"Must be peaceful. My parents asked to be spread over our old ranch. I like cattle, but it's hard to visit when a calf starts chewing on your hair."

She turns to face him. "Hi. Cantrell Kent. What brings you all the way to Metropolis, Mr Wayne?"

"Please, call me Bruce. Just dropping in to support a worthy cause. KIDStropolis does good work. I'm hoping to pick up a few pointers for the Wayne Foundation."

Kent's eyes measure distances to the other people in the room. She looks back at him. "Your 'nice' voice is so weird. Which one is fake?"

"This one." According to Alfred, Bruce's father always sounded like he was growling around a mouthful of marbles.  
  
"I figured. Jimmy, I met your Appalachian kinfolk!"

Bruce doesn't have time to ask what that reference is about. Selina has Jimmy in an armlock and is dragging him across the room. The other guests are a mixed of startled and amused as they move aside. "Bruce, I found a ginger! Can we keep him? He's cute!"

"I agree," Kent steps forward and starts prying Olsen loose from Selina. "But he's mine. I don't share."

Briefly trapped between Selina and Kent, James Bartholomew Olsen looks almost panicked to be the prize in a tug of war contest. Maybe he knows how hard Kent can pull. Kent frees Olsen and pulls him to her chest, wrapping a protective arm around his waist. She's broader and and at least three or four inches taller than him. "Hi. Cantrell Kent. And this is my boyfriend Jimmy."

"Hello Cantrell." The Rs and Ls pour out like a warm purr. Part of the reason Selina and Dixie get along so well is that they're both performers at heart. Selina is clearly in the mood to put on a show right now. "Selina Kyle. I'm with Bruce Wayne. Most nights. It's negotiable."

If being held in a protective embrace by his girlfriend bothers Olsen he doesn't show it. From what Bruce hears Olsen seems to regard masculinity as an outfit to be worn or discarded as needed. And this display of protectiveness by Kent makes her relationship with Lana Lang seem oddly conventional.

"Mr Wayne, you have a foster child, right? Is she here?" She hasn't stopped glaring at Selina, but she obviously wants to steer the conversation to a safe path. Fine by him.

"No. She decided to stay home."

"We invited her," Selina matches Kent's glare with a smile and a level gaze. "But when we told her it was an art auction she said she'd rather slam her fingers in a car door."

"Yeah, that sounds like something I would have said when I was eleven if my parents had invited me to an art show." She loosens her grip on Olsen, who does not let go of her.

"Dixie is twelve," Bruce corrects her. "Her birthday is in April."

"Oh great! I'll make her a gooey butter cake!" At the prospect of baking Kent seems to have forgotten that she's not supposed to know Bruce.

"What is - "

"Trust me, she'll love it. Jimmy, I need the bathroom again."

"You need to cut down on Blue Devil."

"Death first."

Holding Olsen's hand, Kent pulls him along towards the back of the gallery. Bruce wonders if she always takes on a more assertive, conventionally 'masculine', role in relationships or if this is just a matter of protecting Olsen from Selina. Hard to tell from such a short sample time.

Selina fastens herself to Bruce's arm. "That kitten is your walking nuclear weapon?"

"Just because she's friendly doesn't mean she's not a threat."

Against Bruce, Selina's posture shifts. Her voice becomes serious. "How worried should I be?"

Threat assessment. "She's friendly. She seems to genuinely like people in general. And she's had lots of opportunities to kill but I can't find any sign that she's done so."

"And knowing you, you've already stockpiled enough firepower to take her down."

He considers the K-Fall sample in the cave. Kent didn't ask for it after their encounter, so he keeps it in a lead-lined safe in the bomb shelter his family built in the '50s. "Maybe."  
  
The guards are checking their watches and making brief reports through their radios. It's coming up on time for the media and merely wealthy guests to be allowed to mingle with the city's elite.

Selina gestures to the guards. "They're about to let the press up. Want to head towards the back of the gallery?"

"Yeah."

They wander through the central room, passing a guard heading towards the stairs, back to where the tables are set up. The whole evening is supposed to be casual, an informal night out to relax and help others. Tickets cost enough for three months of staple groceries and the cold cut selection includes culatello served on paper plates. KIDStropolis does good work, but that doesn't mean it's free of blind spots.

Kent is already buying more energy drinks. He wonders if they actually do anything for her or if this is something like her glasses. Light prescription lenses with blue filters to hide unnatural eyes. An act of normal life whose point escapes him. Why bother?

" _Your 'nice' voice is so weird. Which one is fake?_ "

Huh.

There are a few pieces along the walls here, smaller and less expensive. As he and Selina approach, Kent and Olsen are holding hands in front of a poster-sized oil painting.

He doesn't understand her reaction to this one. The piece is well done, oil paint and palette knives again. The same artist who did the Uptown scene. Maybe Kent just likes her style. The subject matter is mundane, yet another standard Yin-Yang theme. Two animals chasing one another in a circle, a scarlet and gold bird and a black and grey leather-winged dragon. Well done but exactly the sort of thing you'd expect to find as a cheap poster in any souvenir store. But Kent is looking at the picture with absolute delight. Her smile is so sincere and bright it reminds him of Dixie in her unguarded moments.

"Nightwing and Flamebird," she says. He's not sure if it's to Olsen or him or both. "It's like a story my parents told me."

A Kawatche myth? She grew up on the edge of the Kawatche Nation lands and her family had business ties to the people. Bruce sets the reference aside for later research.

Kent steps back from the painting and looks around the room. She frowns. "Hey," she says. Bruce follows her gaze and sees what's bothering her.

"The guards are gone."


	4. Chapter 4

God fucking shit damn it. Distracted from an actual danger by a hypothetical problem. The rent-a-cops are third rate muscle, but there's no good reason for them to disappear.

Main stairs to the ground level grand hall at the north side of the central wing. Secondary stairs by the bathrooms. Probably more by the administrative offices and storage rooms on the west side. Emergency exits at the south-west corner of the building and in the east wing by the small elevator. One emergency exit, a narrow fire ladder, on the third level. No sign of security. The other staff here don't seem to have noticed anything yet.

Jimmy Olsen's training is completely different from Bruce's. At the first hint of trouble Olsen pulls a compact digital camera out of his pocket. "Why would the guards leave?"

"No good reason." Selina takes Bruce's arm. "Over in the east wing, by the accessibility elevator. There's a - "  
  
Two armed men with clown masks and shitty trigger discipline come from the east wing. They are of fucking course wearing security uniforms.

"Ooooh boy that's bad," Olsen says even as he starts taking pictures. Kent moves between Olsen and the guns. Sticking his arm out around her shoulders Olsen doesn't even slow down with the camera.

"Alright rich bitches! Up against the wall! Everyone against the wall! Come on, come on! Wall, now!" They're waving pistols in the air, fingers on triggers, but Bruce hasn't heard any shots yet.

Startled yelps, confused muttering. No screams yet. Bruce and Selina are the first to move, trying to manoeuvre their way to the back of the crowd. Bruce hears male voices yelling in other rooms, similar instructions in similar tones. With one arm around his waist Kent has basically lifted Olsen, still taking pictures, and is shuffling him over to the wall. The crowd of guests and staff starts to churn.

"Wall, move it, move it! Up against the wall!"

Bruce and his group are there already. Hopefully concealed by the general mob. Olsen has a photojournalist's natural lack of survival instincts and is leaning past Kent for a better shot.

"Don't draw attention," Selina tells Olsen. He ignores her as bodies press in around them.

A taller clown surveys the crowd, looking around the room to the rest of the gang. He watches as more guests are shoved into the pack. "Is that everyone?"  
  
"Yeah."

"Okay." He turns back to the guests and staff pressed against the wall. "Staff downstairs. Paul, Kev, sort 'em out. Rich bitches into the east wing. Let's go!"

More armed men in security uniforms and clown masks. The masks all have facial scars drawn on with markers. Probably Jokerz. Formerly just a pack of suburban kids committing crimes for cash and thrills, now the Joker's crew. They've replaced actual security with their own men. Uniforms and equipment. Work permits. IDs. In order to pull this off the Jokerz must have known about his plans at least a month ago, probably more. That limits the security leak to one of three people on his side. He'll have to talk to Selina about who might have known her plans.

Yelling, the gang starts to herd their victims. Two guys sort waitstaff out from the guests and shove them towards the stairs by the bathrooms. The high-value hostages are shoved towards the sculpture display room.

Olsen has his camera low by his side. At least he has the sense to keep the flash off. "Who are these guys?"

Selina answers. "Jokerz, maybe."

"The Gotham street gang? Why would they be - " Olsen looks at Bruce. "Oh."

They break the guests into small groups separated by the sculptures displayed along the south wall. Jokerz muscle move through the groups, patting people down for cellphones and security devices. In the middle of the floor a Jokerz is fiddling with a compact but expensive looking video camera. "Hang on, this thing is complicated."

"Why did you buy a camera? Just use your phone."

"No way, this has better resolution and sound. Lemme just figure out how to record."

One of the hostage-takers is competent. He's been giving instructions to others, and Bruce suspects he's the closest this group has to a leader. His patdown of the guests includes most of the areas most people might think to conceal security alerts or weapons under their clothes. The others just sort of grope around ankles and waists.

Shaking her head, Kent mutters low. "These guys are such amateurs. They really need to get their act together."

"Not everyone grew up in Smallville," Jimmy gently reminds Cantrell.

"Well maybe I could give them some pointers?"

"Please no."

"We'd actually be safer if I was running this."  
  
Over by the jagged egg a Jokerz muscle is using the patdown as an excuse to maul a guest's breasts. Kent pulls her glasses down her nose and scowls at him over the frames. Across the room the muscle shuffles uncomfortably, then yelps in pain.

"Ah ow, fuck I'm burning!" He slaps at his back and then swears again. The man Bruce has marked as boss-clown walks over to him.

"What the hell? Let me see." He grabs the collar of the mauler's shirt and yanks it down. Even from a few yards away Bruce sees bright red skin. "It's a rash or a sunburn or something."

"A rash?! What the fuck, it burns!"

"Shut up, it's an allergy or something. I gotta get back to work."

Shaking his head the boss-clown walks over to Bruce. He's only competent by comparison to the rest of the Jokerz. He starts his pat down of Bruce five minutes too late. Bruce has had lots of time to activate any security devices he might be carrying. The problem is...

The boss-clown finishes his pat down. "That's it. No security bracelet or nothing."

"Well," Kent speaks in the innocent tone of someone who has not thought at all about what they are about to say. "It's not like the Waynes are famous for their attention to personal security."

The crowd draws in a collective breath and holds it. Even the clowns pause. Kent blushes. "Oh jeez," Olsen says.

The blush deepens. "I'm so sorry, that just slipped out." Her eyes wide, Kent faces Bruce. "Too soon?"

"Yes."

"I am so so sorry."

"Y'know," someone further along the wall mutters. "She's not wrong."

Bruce grits his teeth and fights the muscles in his neck to keep from looking back at whoever said that.

The boss-clown is working his way down the line of hostages. "Names names, come on fuckers." Going down the row boss-clown checks each guest against a list on his phone.  
  
Across the room the mauler is still fidgeting under his clothes. "I'm not allergic to anything," he whines. "This really hurts!"

"Shut up and get back to work." Boss-clown stops at Wayne. "I know your name, rich bitch. Bet you wish you'd stayed home tonight, huh?"

"Just dropping in to support a good cause. KIDStropolis does good work. I'm hoping to pick up a few pointers for the Wayne Foundation."

"I don't need the script you useless idiot." He moves on to Olsen and demands his name. He scowls at the answer. "You're on the media list. What are you doing up here, red?"

Kent puts a hand on Olsen's shoulder. "He's my date."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"She's with me," Bruce says.

Boss-clown looks at Kent. Olsen. Selina. He looks back to Bruce. "You slut." Grabbing Olsen's arm, boss-clown shoves him towards another guard. "Okay red, get downstairs."

Face expressionless, Kent allows the gang to pull Olsen away from her group. "Just do what you're told," she tells Olsen. "Stay quiet and stay out of trouble."

"Listen to her," boss-clown says. "She knows how it works." He turns to the mauler. "You, get this guy downstairs. Go put some water on your back or something. Stop bitching."  
  
Mauler shoves Olsen out of the room. Kent's gaze follows what Bruce figures their path must be, even if it's blocked from sight by the building.

"Over there." Gesturing with his gun, boss-clown and one of his gang move Bruce, Selina, and Kent over to the outer east wall. They shove the small group up against the curve of the stairway to the tower.

"Okay, got the camera working?" Boss-clown stands in front of Bruce. Bruce shields his eyes from the camera's tiny but intense LED light. "We are the Jokerz, and this asshole is Gotham's favourite son Bruce Wayne. We'll make this easy for you dumbfuck cops to figure out. If you don't release our boss from Arkham by midnight, we shoot Bruce Wayne right in the throat just like his useless bitch mother and let him bleed out on the art here. Midnight. We're serious." Pausing for a second, boss-clown looks around at the assembled Jokerz. "Was that good? Did we get that?"

"Yeah it was good. Nice. Paul's recording downstairs, we'll send this to the media now."

Having got what they think they need for now, the gang loses interest in the small group of hostages. They don't bother assigning a guard to the big man or either of his surprisingly muscular 'girlfriends'. Maybe they think that they're standing too close to miss anything their hostages might try.

"Oh wow," Kent says. "Gotham crooks! Come all the way to Metropolis to take Bruce Wayne hostage! I bet Batman will be here soon!"

Selina twitches, a gesture Bruce interprets as her stifling a laugh. Bruce knows he's been spending too much time around tweenaged Grayson when he has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. "Lay it on a little thicker why don't you."

One of the clowns turns his masked head in their direction, then shrugs and turns back to the group trying to figure out the video camera. No one ever accused the Jokerz of attention to detail.  
  
"Why isn't it sending? Did you hit send?"

"I did. The wifi here is shit."

The east wing is the wrong place to hold this group. Upstairs would be better. Or the gallery's lecture hall. Like everything the Jokerz do it's a halfway decent idea ruined by shitty planning and execution. Joker himself and a handful of his lieutenants are competent criminals. The gang they took over is an undisciplined mob. It's hard to hire professionals when you have a reputation for wasting lives.

Kent takes off her glasses and hooks them on the front of her dress. "I don't want them to get broken," she says. It might even be true. They're probably expensive by her standards. Squinting hard she turns her head to peer around the room.

Kent's smart or experienced enough not to whisper. She speaks in a soft mutter, just barely audible. "Twelve on the upper levels. Two upstairs, ten on this level. Nine downstairs. All with stab vests, pepper spray, and Stagg Industries MD9 pistols. No one outside the building."

"I thought your eyes glowed when you used your optic abilities."

"Not always. It's just easier that way."

Selina looks up at Bruce. Speaking in an equally low tone she asks "Optic abilities?"

"Later."  
  
"Three police cars outside. Same three as earlier this evening, but the cops are working now. I can see two more cars on their way. Oh, there's a SWAT van. And so many media. Oh darn there's Lois Lane. Why is she always so mean to Jimmy?"

"Gossip later."

"It's not gossip, she really is mean. She thinks she can get away with it just because she's hot."

Mercifully, Kent spares him any further observations on the hotness of Olsen's colleague. "Along the west wall, past the elevator. About eighteen feet from the south wall there's a concealed door. Opens to a room with a gate in the floor and a winch, must be for moving heavy pieces between floors."

"Hey!" They've finally attracted the attention of the Jokerz. Boss-clown gestures to one of his gang. "Get these idiots back with the rest of them."

Their handler herds them over to the wall and shoves them back into the general mob. Selina sticks tight to Bruce, pressing herself against his right. On his left Kent ends up next to a woman only a few years older than her who looks as though she's about to cry. "It's okay. Batman must be on the case. He'll rescue us."

Bruce grits his teeth. Does she have absolutely no clue how to keep a secret? "Are you drunk? How would Batman be here?"

"Maybe he flew here in his batplane?"

"Batpl- what?" Why would he have a plane? The feds would shut him down in seconds if he started violating airspace. And why would he call it a fucking batplane? Do people think he's merchandising his identity?

The woman edges away from Kent. Obviously smart enough to avoid the sort of person who can't keep her fucking mouth shut at times like this. At least Selina is trying not to draw attention. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that Kent doesn't have a sense of personal danger.

Kent is squinting at the floor now. "Ugh."

"What's wrong?"

Glancing over at the woman next to her, Kent leans in tight to Bruce. He's sandwiched between her and Selina. It only sounds erotic. "There's a guy down there who needs to see a doctor about his UTI. It looks pretty bad."

"That seems intrusive."

"Sometimes I forget people have surfaces."

Treating all his clothes with lead would be uncomfortable, toxic, and expensive even by his standards.

Her breath tickles his jaw. "Wow, that woman's surgeon was really good."

Worth it maybe?

"You're not taking this seriously."

"Bruce. B-Man."

"Stop."

"Two of the world's experts on dealing with armed jerks are in this room."

"When did you turn into an expert?"

"When Jeremy Creek turned up at the cheerleader review with his uncle's AR-15."

Selina nods, a gesture more felt than seen. "She has a point."  
  
Bruce reminds himself to thank Alfred for homeschooling him.

The Jokerz guarding the crowd are more interested in their phones than their hostages. "Check it. We made the news."

"Sweet." 

Grumbling under her breath Kent pulls away from Bruce. Not having the human car compactor pressed against him provides a certain degree of psychological relief. She sighs and says "Okay..."

The lights die. First the mains, then the track lighting over the artwork, then the emergency lights.

"Shit, it's the cops!"

"Stay calm, moron. We have flashlights!"

"Oh. Yeah."

Dim light comes in through the skylights, the orange glow of the city broken into patches of shadow by the ceiling's cross-beams.

Bruce keeps his voice down to a low mutter. "You did something to the lights."

"I shorted out the wiring with a combination of heat vision and x-ray vision," Kent mutters back. Then she calls out "We're saved! Batman is here! Watch out, evil clowns!"

"How have you managed to keep any secrets this long?"

Without answering, Kent vanishes. Wind pulls at Bruce's hair and clothes. From the central area come crashing noises, a long clatter and the smash of plates. Tables being overturned? Jokerz yell, the hostages flinch and gasp.

A low eerie laugh, a growling noise of savage mockery, rolls down from the ceiling. The laughter echoes around the room, drawing everyone's attention upwards. From the darkness flame-red inhuman eyes glare down.  
  
A hooded figure stands on a cross beam, silhoutted against the skylight. It spreads its arms, fabric draping like wings. A tablecloth. Despite the material wrapped around its body like a tunic the figure is clearly wearing a short dress.

" **I AM VENGEANCE. I AM THE NIGHT. I AM _BATMAN_**."

"This whole night is bullshit," Bruce mutters.


	5. Chapter 5

The badly overweight 'guard' Bruce spotted earlier has the instincts and reflexes of a gunslinger but no sense of counting bullets. The obese clown spends a solid five seconds emptying his pistol into the figure, then looks shocked when the pistol locks empty. In the pumpkin-glow of the city night Bruce sees that Kent stands with her hands on her hips, taping her foot impatiently on the crossbeam.  
  
" **Are you done?** "

"Ogod!"

Jokerz and guests alike scream as the figure leaps from the crossbeam, 'cape' flaring behind as it glides to a halt a foot above the now unarmed clown.

" **I, BATMAN, WILL DRINK YOUR BLOOD!** "

" _Nooooooooo!_ "

"I have never threatened to drink anyone's blood," Bruce mutters. "That's just bullshit."

Another clown runs up and shoots the hovering figure in the side of the head. It turns a burning glare on him, eyes blazing underneath its tablecloth hood. " **Wait your turn**."

She turns into a hurricane, a blur that roars from one Jokerz to the next, zigzagging in no pattern Bruce can see. Jokerz cry out in shock and pain as their pistols are wrenched from their hands. By the time Bruce is able to confirm that she's not taking the most efficient path between the clowns her rampage is already done. Somehow she has stacked over a dozen pistols like a sandwich and is balancing them between her outstretched hands. Metal groans in protest as she squeezes. Bruce twitches, barely holding himself back from dropping to the floor. One fucking mistake on her part and the ammunition in those pistols will go off, sending fragments spraying through the hostages.

She doesn't make that mistake. Dropping the stack of ruined plastic and metal to the floor she snarls like an entire pack of hungry wolves. " **Guns are a coward's weapon! Fight me, Jokerz!** "

Two Jokerz break, running for the nearest stairs. A hurricane smashes them to the floor, where they lie moaning like men hit by a car.

Kent is next to Bruce again, her hand on his abdomen. She has dropped the tablecloths somewhere. Leaning in like this her breasts are an uncomfortable warmth against his chest. "I'll be right back. I'm going to disarm the ones downstairs."

"Aren't you worried about showing off your abilities in the same building as people who know you?"  
  
"Nah. I used to do this all the time back in high school."

She leaves through the concealed door at the far wall, not bothering to open it first. The freight winch's shaft will allow unobserved access to all gallery's levels except the east tower. Her rampage through the clowns took a lot of odd turns. Reviewing her zigzag motions, Bruce checks lines of sight on the gallery's security cameras and compares her path to their blindspots. Kent is about as subtle as an earthquake, but she is very good at avoiding cameras. Bruce doesn't even bother trying. There are too many for anyone without enhanced senses and speed to manage.  
  
She's back again, smelling faintly of firearms propellant. He wonders how she manages to get in tight to people at those velocities without maiming them. Pressing in much too close, she speaks next to his ear. Her voice is soft. Nostalgic. "It drove my parents crazy when I did it."

"I can't imagine why."

She gusts away. Across the room a Jokerz screams. Leaning close to Selina, Bruce eyes the winch room. "We should - "

A nudge against his ribs cuts him off. "Let's watch the walking nuclear weapon handle things. I bet it will be good for Batman's reputation."

"I don't wear minidresses."

"Of course not. You don't have the thighs for them."

Wearing her tablecloths again Kent sneaks in close behind a sweaty clown. She sticks her fingers up from the sides of her head like the horns on Bruce's cowl. " **Boo**."

Fucking tablecloths for a disguise. There is no way this bullshit is fooling anyone.

"Batman's shorter than I thought he'd be," a hostage says.

"And a lot more femme."

"It's a good look for him. He's got nice legs."

Fuck everyone in Metropolis and fuck these halfwits in particular.

She's back. No sense of motion, she's just there with the breeze. This time her arm is around his waist. Like she was holding Olsen earlier. "Being you is kind of fun. I'll be right back. A couple of Jokerz downstairs have holed up in a bathroom with a hostage. I'm going to disable them before things get out of hand."  
  
' _Fun_ '?

Boss-clown staggers through the middle of the room, clutching his hand. Bruce suspects at least his trigger-finger is broken. "Kyle! Kyle, where are you?! Batman is - "

'Batman' is right in front of him. Boss-clown shrieks. Eyes blazing like hot coals the figure points to him. " **You** ," it's voice booms. " **One beatdown for every use of the word 'bitch'.** "

Struggling not to laugh, Selina makes choking _snrrk_ noises. The boss-clown is making noises of his own, yelping and crying out in pain as Kent slaps him around like a ragdoll. " **PUNY CLOWN**."

Hunched over, hand over her mouth, Selina _snnrrrkk_ s like a duck being strangled. "Oh my God," she whispers.

" **BATMAN SMASH!** "

More strangled ducks. "Oh _no_..."  
  
"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I just peed myself a little."

Nothing about this is remotely funny. People are at risk. He doesn't appreciate Kent making a joke of it.  
  
Boss-clown staggers past Bruce and Selina, mask-hair smouldering, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to extinguish his burning sleeves. " _Why am I on fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire?!_ "

Not funny. Not even a little.

Selina nudges Bruce. "You sound like a deflating snake when you laugh."

"I'm aware."

Arms wrap around Bruce from behind. A chin is on his shoulder. Before he can act Kent's voice tickles his jaw. "You spook easier than a hot thoroughbred." He can hear the grin in her voice. "I haven't had this much fun since I shredded Humanite's Delaware lab."  
  
He can't help the shudder that runs down his back, down his whole body. Not of fear but of realization. _Ultra-Humanite_. Head of a major criminal network headquartered in the East Coast. A sociopath with a neuromuscular disorder, an arms dealer specializing in chemical and biological weapons, an utter monster who had arranged to transplant his brain into the tissue-compatible body of a kidnapped actress. Four years ago his successful criminal empire had simply collapsed, cause unknown. Both Bruce and the authorities had put the collapse down to infighting within his gang, and breathed a sigh of relief when the brain in the electrocuted corpse had proven to be a genetic match to Humanite's FBI and CIA files.

"Cops have the ground floor under control. I'm going to finish off the Jokerz hiding under the table upstairs."  
  
No wonder she hadn't taken the Jokerz seriously. Of course she dodges the world's ubiquitous security so effortlessly. She's been doing this since at least _grade ten_.

He's the amateur.

Selina's voice is amused. "I think she likes you."

Bullshit. "She's trolling me."

"It must be so frustrating being an introverted demisexual with an emotional IQ of zero."

Bruce Wayne is a trained observer. He's taken professional courses in reading emotions. He has no idea what Selina is talking about.

The hurricane returns. In the middle of the room the weird scrap metal egg blasts into a vortex of flying debris. The shrapnel cloud expands briefly, then collapses. In place of the sculpture a dozen Jokerz are wrapped in aluminum tubes and rusty steel. Most of them are crying.

How does she move at those speeds without hurting people? Practice. Years of it.

Footsteps in the central area. A solitary runner, yelling. After a second Bruce recognizes Olsen's voice. What the fuck now? "Coming through coming through! Watch the door!"

Olsen runs into the east wing and skids to a stop. Dropping to the floor he positions himself to take pictures of the entryway.

More running noises. A SWAT cop bursts into the room, dropping and rolling to a position where they can cover the centre of the room with their pistol. Others take position in the doorway itself and two more cops follow the first-in, sweeping the room through their rifle sights for hostiles. It's a good entry. Better than Gotham SWAT can manage. They haven't had the funding for proper training in a few years and it shows.

Snapping pictures, Olsen grins. "Niiiice."

"You're late," a former hostage says.

"Batman got them," says another.

Still in a firing crouch, the SWAT first-in whips her head around looking for 'him'. "Really?! Where?!"

Gritting his teeth, Bruce Wayne points up to the crossbeam where Kent is posing dramatically. As dramatically as anyone can when they're wearing two tablecloths over a microfibre dress.

" **Evil is defeated! I return to Gotham!** " No blur, just a crack as air fills the hole where she used to be.

"Man," Jimmy Olsen says as he rolls over to take a picture of empty space. "That was so cool."

"Jimmy!" Kent is behind Bruce again, just as though she's been there all along. She runs over to Olsen and scoops him off the floor into a hug. "You're safe!"

Standing next to a statue, one of the rescued hostages makes a puzzled face. "But why was Batman wearing a dress?"

"Maybe he just felt like being pretty," Olsen replies, feet dangling two inches from the floor.  
  
Bullshit doesn't even begin to describe this evening.


	6. Chapter 6

This evening was great!

No one got hurt - well except the Jokerz a little but those guys were jerks - and Jimmy got some good pictures and giving their statements to the cops really didn't take that long and Bruce is a nicely solid slab of muscle so wow Selina have fun with all that. Everything about this evening went way better than Cantrell expected. And the downstairs concession had chapulines!

"I didn't even see they had these when we came in. Glad I saw them on the way out." On their way down the gallery's stairs Cantrell holds the box out to Bruce and Selina. "Want some? They're a little oversalted but they're pretty fresh."

"Uh, if you don't know what those are I should warn you." Jimmy is sweet and charming and can dial a rotary phone with his tongue but when it comes to food he is a plain vanilla White boy.

"I know." It's hard to tell if Bruce is frowning more than usual. "I'll pass."

Selina wrinkles her nose. "Same."

"Rich people," Cantrell says with a sigh. "I bet y'all eat lobster and crab. Those're just sea bugs."

Jimmy shudders. "At least underwater we don't have to look at them." He puts his arm around Cantrell's shoulder and squeezes. "It sucks that you didn't get a chance to meet anyone."

"But I did! Bruce and I bonded!"

Bruce stops dead in his tracks. "No we didn't."

"Oh you did too." Selina gently slaps him on the arm. "Lighten up."

"Fine. We 'bonded'."

"That's pretty cool," Cantrell tells Bruce. "Not many people can actually pronounce quotation marks."

Scowling, Bruce stomps off through the police perimeter towards the parking lot. Following, Cantrell drags Jimmy along with her. "Hey," Jimmy protests. "Maybe we should oh there's Ms Lane."

He's right. There's his senior colleague Lois Lane standing by a black sports car. She's wearing a short skirt again, Cantrell notices. Why does she wear so many short skirts? It just seems impractical.

"Mr Wayne, got a minute for the press? Jimmy, White says if you don't have pictures he's going to eat your skin."

"Um..."

Ignoring Jimmy, Lois turns back to look up at Bruce. "Lois Lane, Daily Planet. Any idea why the Batman would show up to personally save your ass?"

Frowing, Bruce looks at Lois. Then he looks at Selina. Back to Lois. "Daily Planet - wait, do I own this one? Or is that the other guy?"

"No, we - "

"Must be the other guy. Excuse us, Ms Lang."

"Lane. Don't you think it's a little unusual for Batman to be personally involved in your safety?"

Bruce shrugs. "Well, a guy who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues. I'm not even going to try to second guess him, honey."

Cantrell interrupts before Lois can ask the same question again. "Bruce Wayne donates a lot to Gotham charities. Maybe Batman was just trying to help a good citizen."

"No such thing, Kent. Oh, are those chapulines? Thanks." Ignoring Cantrell's frown Lois grabs a handful and pops some in her mouth. "Too salty, but not bad."

Bruce shakes his head. "Ms Lang, it's been a long night. I'll issue a statement soon, you can read that just like everyone else." He pushes past Lois towards the black car. It theoretically has a back seat but the headroom makes it more of a crawlspace.

"Gotta go, Lois. Talk to you later." Cantrell drags Jimmy after Bruce and Selina again. It is Jimmy's night off and he is on a date. Lois will just have to be satisfied with the contents of his camera. Cantrell has dibs on the rest of him.

"Don't try to escape, Kent! We still have to do the Luthor interview!"

"Talk to the cops, Lois." Cantrell shoves Jimmy into the back of Bruce's car. "They've got my statement."

"You can't outrun - " Cantrell closes the door on whatever Lois is about to say.

"I cannot believe that woman." Hunched in the back seat Cantrell glares through the window at Lois. Great legs, shame about the personality.

"She's actually pretty nice once you get used to her," Jimmy says as they fasten their seatbelts. "And I think she kinda likes you."

Up front Bruce is scowling so hard she can hear it in his voice. "Why are you in my car?"

Forgetting that he can't see her, Cantrell rolls her eyes at Bruce. "You're driving Jimmy and me home." Leaning forward to speak to Selina she says "Is he always this grumpy?"

"Bruce? He's a complete pussycat. You should see him with Dixie."

"Great idea! Jimmy, we should visit them sometime!"

"Fuck my life," growls Bruce Wayne.

"Um," worries Jimmy Olsen.


	7. Chapter 7

Lois has Perry White on the phone before Kent and Wayne and their crowd are out of the parking lot. Keeping an eye out to make sure there are no eavesdroppers, Lois Lane talks at White. She's got a lot of work to do tonight, but first she wants to get on top of the most important part. Lois talks fast. "Everywhere else, it's all big stuff. Landslides, floods, armed militias attacking civilians, major forest fires. Here we've got a school shooting, that car full of gangbangers in Suicide, and now a hostage taking."

" _You really think this... superwoman of yours lives here?_ "

"She's not my superwoman, that's what the rescue workers call her. But yeah, I'm telling you she's here. In Metropolis. Why else would she bother with this local stuff?"

" _Yeah well, you still haven't given me anything we can publish. One piece of video or a photo we can prove isn't fake, one eyewitness actually willing to put their name and reputation on the line, and then we can print all the rest of what you have._ "

"I'll get it, White. She can't outrun me."

* * *

  
**GOTHAM GAZETTE**  
Online Edition, January 17th 2021

**Making It Right**  
Bruce Wayne leads effort to raise funds despite hostage incident at gala

* * *

He doesn't regret buying the paintings, but where would she put them? He'll keep them at the manor until Kent has a place of her own.


End file.
